


Undone

by AvianInk



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, POV Bruce Banner, POV Natasha Romanov, Prompt Fic, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, there's sex okay it's just sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvianInk/pseuds/AvianInk
Summary: Natasha reminds Bruce that there are better ways to spend nights in a new home.





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Fanfic Friday--here's some sin.
> 
> Also, Stay the Night is almost at 100 kudos...what

Organizing a kitchen and a lab are two activities of the same monotony. The process can be cathartic, grant a sense of autonomy in an unknown space, but quickly becomes tedious when fatigue settles in. Upstairs, Nat’s either waiting for him or asleep, and he’s stuck on arranging spices. Everything else has a home, like him and Nat now, except for the damn spices. In theory, he could go to bed and save this for tomorrow, but his neuroticism has put that completely out of the question. This is the last thing left to unpack. He won’t leave it lingering.

He’s trying to organize by colors when light feet pad through the living room, toward him, then into his vicinity. Between the edges of dim luminescence and silhouette, Natasha appears, clad in one of his button-down shirts and black underwear. The shirt hangs straight and loose at her sides, but only because two buttons are fastened together. He can tell exactly which pair of underwear she’s wearing, because nothing obstructs his view. Judging by the curved lean of her body, that’s the effect she’s going for.

He’s in his daytime clothes, yet he feels the heat of the spotlight she’s shining on him. She’s a vision, and he’s the one exposed. He’s also practically drooling, with his face making no effort to hide the wide surprise and attraction.

To be honest, they’d done the whole “christening” of their first home a little prematurely (they’d had sex—really great sex—the night they’d signed the papers). Yesterday, move-in day, had them exhausted. The sight of her right now, however, has erased spices and sleepiness from his mind.

“H-hey,” he says, a little lamely. He removes his hands from the spice cabinet as though it’s a body not hers.

She doesn’t respond, not verbally. His reaction is exactly what she wants, and she soaks it in with a sly tilt of her lips. He’s not self-conscious about how stunned, even hungry, he looks. No, he’s more than happy to give her this to bask in.

She crosses over to him. Obviously her footsteps are still audible against the wood, it’s just that he doesn’t hear them. She might as well be floating or walking across water to his shore. Ogling isn’t something he really does, but it’s a bit hard to resist given the current situation. Perhaps it’s the lowered inhibition that comes with fatigue, or the comfort between them. Whatever it is, it’s far too difficult to keep his gaze from roaming over the violet fabric across her breasts, the valley between, the sleek edges of her panties and what they cover—the part he’d like to drink in.

“Having fun?” The question is simple, yet she fuses the essence of sensuality into it. For all that he’s speechless, she is just as smug.

He fumbles for his own tongue, which would rather do other things than talk. “Uh...not—no, not really.”

The narrowing of her eyes, their journey down his body and sojourn on his mouth, is enough to make him melt. Knowing full well how she can choose words to attack or, in this case, undress, he fears implosion when she speaks.

“Well,” a palm slides across the counter in his direction. “Goodnight.” She pivots and makes for the exit.

What?

For half a beat, he stammers, then manages a quick, “Hold on.”

Once again, he blames his next action on lack of restraint. Her leisurely pace makes it easy enough to beeline toward her, catch her on the other side of the counter, and pull her into him. Their mouths meet, fast, open, and starving. He’d have taken her by the hand, but that’s gone now. His are mixed between her jaw and side, whereas both of hers are at his waist, pulling him flush against her.

He wants more than this. He wants friction, her skin hot under his touch, gasps and various noises of pleasure pouring out of her. Some parts are more sensitive than others—for her, it’s the ears and right on the spine—and that’s where he wants his mouth, kissing and sucking until she trembles, clutches him, asks for more, what he’s always willing to give. When it’s for her, there’s always more. They make their own infinity, looping in and out of each other until mutual exhaustion.

More than quivering and kisses, though, he wants his mouth on the crux of her, fingers in her, obeying her yearning. Quite honestly, on top of all that, there’s undeniable appeal in the idea of bringing her to orgasm over and over again, even when she doesn’t think another is possible.

In accordance with these volitions, his hands rush down, chase loose fabric down to the hem. When his fingers hook onto the top of her underwear, inhibition kicks him, and his hasty movement halts. In a compromise with himself, he settles his hands on the dip of her hips, atop his shirt she’s wearing.

There’s no stealth to the movement. In an instant, she notices, surmises what lies behind his hesitations, and disconnects their lips.

There’s no accusation or punishment when she looks at him. Her eyes are slightly hooded, completely insinuation without guilt. With more than just scientific curiosity, she asks, “What would you like to do?”

Her grip has them pressed together at the pelvis. Without a doubt, she can feel him stiffening, straining against fabric. There aren’t many ways he could talk himself out of this and nor does he want to. Their utmost honesty lies within each other, as does their safety. It takes him a moment to work up the courage, but he does finally murmur, “Honestly?”

The fingers at his waist unhook, quickly replaced by palms that slide around to his back. She joins them in a different, still cherished way and breathes a faint, “Yeah.”

He cups one side of her face. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

There’s utter peace in how she exhales into a little smile, then turns to kiss his hand. One palm snakes up between them to cover his, and she leans her head into their connection. “Show me, Bruce.”

Then she guides his fingers lower, where they both want him, and he needs no further instruction.

She’s come once already. With his tongue flicking her clit and three fingers inside, she’d come. And he kept going.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Hell, they didn’t make it out of the kitchen, which is why she’s splayed out on the countertop, where she’s close to coming undone a second time. Bruce’s fingers thump inside her, push hummed moans from her throat, while his mouth swirls a pattern of quick circles and broad strokes. His enthusiasm in eating her out is apparent and abundant, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

This somehow feels limitless and unsustainable in a delicious, simultaneous array of sensations.

The tremors from each rapid pulse build and build with no reprieve. Their wake winds her muscles tight, her core grasping for the fingers surging in and out. This fervor is new, even overwhelming, has her releasing a strained moan of, “Bruce,” but not because she wants it to cease. Both her legs are curled over him, one flexed heel digging into his shoulder blade, a wordless plea for what he will give—all of it.

He’s the blessed lightning within her. The shocks make her come alive, turn her skin to fire that arches into the colder air around her, around them. Her hands scramble for something steady and find everything slick and cool but him. She tethers one fist into his hair, where it awaits thunder.

The force thumping inside her lulls. The pressure on her clit slows to lapping strokes. She gasps surface air, fills her trembling chest. They coast like this, with her dripping for him, for seconds that she could mistake for little infinities. The floating is a pleasant ebb and flow, but not enough to get her to come again.

She props herself up on an elbow. Relaxing her abdomen is a challenge, but she tries, because she wants to see him loving her, wants to encourage the storm.

He crashes back into her without warning. It’s so fast, the sole symptom of her whiplash is an, “ _ Oh _ ,” that tumbles out louder than intended. Her exhales turn into an avalanche of hums and moans as he surges and surges, coils her tighter and tighter.

Her second climax arrives like rain, foretold but revitalizing nonetheless. His tongue slows to spread the fluid. He tastes the puddle of her. And he keeps going.

She rides through her orgasm on two of his fingers, walls clenching around them. When her core unwinds again—only slightly—he removes one digit, refrains from overloading her into a sensory shutdown, and drums into her while her noises dry. Her coherency condenses again.

“Bruce—fuck—”

His mouth detaches to respond. “If you want me to—”

She surges upright, limbs uneasy but still strong. “Don’t you dare stop,” she pants. They renegotiate their position so it’s her arms around his shoulders, not her legs, which wrap about his torso. His free hang tugs her to the counter’s edge, while she seizes his dampened face and kisses him, more desirous than coordinated. His rhythm turns erratic in the meantime, though nonetheless pleasuring. In this molten state, she probably couldn’t handle his length inside her. That doesn’t prevent her wanting to feel him, how hard he is because of this. Their current arrangement makes that a challenge so, when he tweaks a nipple, aside from humming through the pleasure, she reaches down for her own sodden clit.

With a hand on her spine, he reinforces her, pushes her into the thrust and kiss she has no intention of leaving. She’s too far gone (twice over) to match the pace of the finger pulsing in her. Regardless, his pressure and hers, her taste on his tongue, the steam stored between their mouths—it’s far more than enough to send her careening toward an apex she knows so well.

She’s climbing and climbing fast when his mouth retreats from hers. On the next thrust, his lips return, this time to her breast, where teeth scrape. His tongue swirls, his mouth sucks, and then her senses flare and drain out in a gush of fluid, a river of guttural moans. She plummets down into him, into the finger curled against her G spot, which turns her into an seismic aftershock with very tense legs.

Her first instinct is to grab his face and kiss him, but her hand comes away from her clit damp. She does the latter anyway. His tongue is slick and sweet with her. When he eases his last finger out, a tremor melts her spine a little.

They prolong the end of their coupling with a series of breathless kisses. Meanwhile, their hands hover awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with their liquid leftovers. He’s previously made it clear that he likes to lap her up as much as he can, but with the amount she’s come, that’d be an incredibly ambitious goal for anyone right now.

After a peck, he reaches for his crumpled bundle of a purple shirt and wipes his hands on it, then offers it to her. Dried—her fingers, at least—she’s free to clutch his jaw, press into his lips once more, and hop off the slick countertop. There’s an undeniable wobble in her knees; otherwise, everything has settled. She’s simply standing naked in their kitchen.

His gaze takes her in, as if he didn’t have enough of her, then slides to the cabinets. “I should clean up...and—”

“Forget about the spices,” she orders, still lacking air. She cups his crotch to find him hard. “There are more important things right now.”

He returns her smirk, though with a wrinkle of concern. “Are you sure you’re…?”

If he wanted to fuck her on the counter right this minute, the answer would be no. But this is Bruce, with a brain bursting with intelligence and consideration and, currently, lust.

She nods, answers, “I said show me.” In a light taunt, she adds, “Or are you done already?”

He leans into her, close enough to kiss, but a barrier of words comes between them. “Not even close.”

She curves her body into his arch and raises her palms to his head. Her hands stroke down his neck, across his slippery shoulders to his arms, brushes across his hairs and fits his fingers between hers. They latch onto each other as she pulls him away from the spice cabinet, toward their bedroom, and into her.


End file.
